by Niamh Greene
Reasons to end relationship* with Mr X:
a)He just got married to his girlfriend
b)He’s my boss
c)He just got married to his girlfriend
11.10 p.m.
Right. So that’s fairly clear. Mr X and I are over. Not that we had ever really begun. It was just sex. Really good sex. The best sex ever. But we can’t do that any more, not now he’s married. That would be wrong. Morally, ethically, terribly wrong. So that’s it. The decision is made.
11.12 p.m.
But what if we can’t help ourselves? What if all the animal magnetism between us is too much and we just can’t resist? What if I see him and I want to rip his clothes off, shove him in the stationery cupboard and do unspeakable things to him? What if he gives me that special look, the one that says ‘I want you’, and I just melt?
11.19 p.m.
Maybe I should think about this in the morning when my head is nice and clear. It’s late. Far too late to be thinking about this. And things always look better in the morning – I’ll definitely know what to do then.
Open Forum
From Devil Woman: Hey, is this blog for real?
From Hot Stuff: I think so – I wonder what she’ll do?
From Broken Hearted: Julie, take my advice and walk away. Continuing an affair with a married man will destroy you. Married men are a whole world of trouble and pain.
From Hot Stuff: I think it’s romantic – Julie and Mr X are like star-crossed lovers who can’t be together. Like Cathy and Heathcliff.
From Angel: Don’t be ridiculous, they’re not star-crossed lovers. And they’re NOTHING like Cathy and Heathcliff – have you ever actually read Wuthering Heights? This Mr X is a low-life love rat – imagine how his wife will feel if she ever finds out what’s been going on.
From Hot Stuff: OK, so I never read the actual book, but I saw it on telly – it was HOT.
From Devil Woman: Mr X’s wife must be pretty stupid if she didn’t suspect something was up before she married him. How could you not know your fiancé was having an affair? There must have been hundreds of clues!
From Sexy Girl: Maybe she did know – maybe she married him anyway.
From Angel: Why would any woman in her right mind do that? She’d have to be crazy. No way, she can’t have known. He’s obviously an adulterous liar – and so is this Julie.
From Devil Woman: All I know is that Mr X sounds gorgeous! Hey Julie, let us know what happens!
From Graphic Scenes: Do you think she’ll describe any hot sex?
Eve
Dear Charlie,
Before I start, I’d like to make it crystal clear that it wasn’t my idea to write to you. You will never read this letter of course, mainly because I’ll never send it, but that’s not the point. The point is that I want it to be known from the outset that this letter-writing thing is my therapist’s idea, not mine. Yes, that’s right, I have a therapist. Her name is Mary and she claims that, even though I believed I was over you, I actually have lots of unresolved issues about our breakup. Issues that, in her professional opinion, will significantly improve if I put pen to paper and express my innermost thoughts and feelings. I was really opposed to the plan at first – I was horrified at the idea of you reading what I might write – but I changed my mind when Mary explained that I didn’t have to send the letters to you, I could just store them up and have one enormous bonfire with them at the end, when my mental health is fully restored. Mary says this may take quite some time, but I’m trying to stay optimistic.
A lot has changed in the two years since you left. I’m working from home now, which is great because there’s no commute and I can stay in my pyjamas all day if I want to. It’s going very well and I’ve been really busy. Sometimes I’m so snowed under with writing commissions that it’s all I can do to keep up. Anna thinks I should get out more though – she says it’s not natural to spend so much time indoors sitting at my computer. She’s even started calling me the Hermit recently as a little joke. But just because my social life is non-existent doesn’t mean I’m unhappy. Tom and I have been very content pottering about together. Well, I say ‘pottering’, but really Tom just lies on the window ledge licking his bits and looking disdainful. He doesn’t roam that much any more and he’s even given up bringing dead mice into the kitchen and dumping them slap bang in the centre of the breakfast table. Mum says he lost the will to live when you left, but I tell her he just got older and more sensible and can’t be bothered chasing rodents when he can simply concentrate on lying in the sun, toasting himself. That’s not quite true of course – he did miss you at the beginning. He spent weeks ignoring me completely and turning away every time I tried to coax him out of his sulk with a head rub. It was like he blamed me for you leaving. But in the end he got used to it and I think he forgot all about you eventually.
I’d forgotten all about you too. Well, almost, that is. I’d nearly stopped thinking about you every day. I’d managed to train myself to allow you into my head only every other day, which was progress. Sometimes, if I was really lucky, I could block you out of my mind completely for three consecutive days at a time. Even I was impressed with myself when that happened.
So, you see, my life was fine. Quiet but fine. And then I saw your wedding photograph and it all fell apart.
I was in the supermarket when it happened. I was standing in line, waiting to pay for my basket of groceries, when I picked up the latest copy of Hiya! I wasn’t going to buy it – I was just leafing through it to pass the time. You see, I knew I was going to be queuing for ages – the checkout girl had already taken four attempts to scan a tin of beans for the customer ahead of me – but I didn’t mind. In fact, I was quite enjoying looking at the photos of all the Very Orange People with very white teeth in very short dresses grinning out at me from the pages. It was really entertaining. Especially the close-up shots where you could spot the streaky bits of fake tan round their knuckles or the chips in their nail polish where chunks of diamanté had fallen off.
But then, just as I was chuckling over a VOP’s VPL, there you were staring back at me from page 47, your arms wrapped round a ravishing blonde in a couture-looking wedding dress, and in a flash I felt really strange. All light-headed and dizzy and like I was going to pass out. I don’t know if it was the shock of seeing you and another woman looking so smugly happy and in love, or the fact that you were wearing a tuxedo. (Which, by the way, I don’t think suited you all that well. You looked like you were about to serve a good Sauvignon Blanc or pass round a platter of hors d’oeuvres.) Either way, I came over all funny. I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but apparently I threw the magazine stand to the ground and started dancing on your head, and then flailed about with my shopping bag, which caught the checkout girl on the cheek – accidentally, I’m almost sure. I vaguely remember a security man trying to calm me down (well, sort of getting me in a headlock and threatening to handcuff me to the sweet counter), but other than that it’s all a blur. Mind you, the store captured it all on CCTV so my solicitor says I’ll be able to watch the entire thing soon.
One thing I know for sure is that, in that instant, all the progress I’d made since you left was erased and I was right back to square one again. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how happy you looked with your new wife in that photo and how things between us had gone so badly wrong, and before I knew it I was scrubbing the grout between the bathroom tiles and rearranging all my cleaning products alphabetically again, and you know I only do that when I get really stressed.
It was Anna who suggested therapy. She said I should be completely over you by now and that the supermarket incident proved what she had suspected all along: that I wasn’t. And therapy did work a treat for her and Derek. Of course Derek attended the sessions with her so they could understand why he suddenly wanted to wear women’s G-strings under his grimy work overalls, but still. I know you think Anna’s an interfering busybody – isn’t that what you called
her at that dinner party all that time ago? – but she’s incredibly intuitive and my oldest friend, so I value her advice. And she has been very supportive since you left. She was brilliant when you walked out – cutting out a photo of your face and pasting it onto a dartboard in my darkest hour made me laugh when I thought I would never laugh again. I never actually threw any darts at you, but it did come in handy in the end – it’s the perfect noticeboard for keeping track of all my freelance assignments.
I have to admit that, even though I was cautious at first, Mary the therapist has been very insightful so far. For example, she says my obsessive cleaning means I’m trying to control some aspect of my environment and that it’s simply not healthy to be so attached to the vacuum cleaner. I need to learn to let go, apparently – which means that if I finish a coffee I should let the dirty cup rest on the worktop for longer than five seconds before putting it in the dishwasher.
She’s certain she can help me find healing, and she already thinks my inner rage is subsiding a bit, which has to be good news. I don’t think I have all that much inner rage to be honest – not unless you count how I feel about people who skip the queue at the deli counter when I’m waiting to get a wedge of that fresh Parmesan you used to love so much. (Can you believe I’m still buying that? Force of habit, I suppose.) Those types really make my blood boil, although I didn’t admit that to Mary – I was afraid she might think I was a bit unstable. Mary says you’d be very surprised at what lies beneath the surface of most normal-looking people, and I suppose she’d know – she’s been a psychotherapist for twelve years. That’s what the certificate in the waiting room says, and I’m quite sure it was genuine and not a good fake like you might have suggested if you’d been there. She says that even people who seem in full control of their faculties can go a bit bonkers given enough provocation, and that I am a classic internalizer, which means that outwardly I appear perfectly fine but inside I am boiling over and could explode any time – which is what happened in the supermarket when I saw that photograph.
Apparently, that was only the tip of the iceberg. It might take decades for all the negative emotions to bubble to the surface, and then the suppressed anger might come gushing out in a torrent of unstoppable violence and I could end up in a home for the bewildered before you could say cuckoo’s nest. I did explain to Mary that it’s been two years since you left and that really, if I had internalized all this rage, then surely I would have seen more of it by now. But Mary says that these things are unpredictable and that you never can tell when disaster will strike and it all comes pouring out. That makes sense, although I’m worried I may have to see Mary for the rest of my life. Maybe I should go and have a chat with the bank manager just in case, because if there’s one thing she really knows how to do it’s to charge for her advice.
Anna is encouraging me to keep going, though. She’s more determined than ever to help me now, after what’s happened: she’s even concocting a plan of her own to distract me from my misery, and she says that all will be revealed shortly. I have to say I’m a little nervous about that. The last time Anna had a great plan she persuaded me to go skydiving with her to conquer her fear of heights. She could barely climb the stairs before then, but jumping out of a plane at 30,000 feet really cured her. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she was flying through the air, strapped to her instructor – it was a mixture of pure terror and pure euphoria. I loved it too – the feeling of freedom was amazing. Of course it was spoiled a bit when I landed awkwardly and broke my arm in three places and had to have five different pins inserted and nearly six months of physiotherapy. Still, I’m sure her new plan won’t be anything as dramatic, at least I hope not – I’m not that keen on taking unnecessary risks with my life.
On a more positive note, the editor at Her magazine has commissioned me to do a series of relationship quizzes. She saw some of my work in the Gazette and liked my style, so called me out of the blue. I did tell her that I don’t have a psychology degree and that maybe I’m not qualified enough, but she said that didn’t matter and that I can bluff it if I have to. I felt kind of uncomfortable at first, but it pays really well and the bonus is that with my tragic relationship history I certainly won’t have to do any research. I’ve attached my most recent example – it might ring a few bells with you.
Eve
Is He a Cheater or a Keeper?
According to recent research, 50 per cent of all men cheat on their partners. Would you know if your man was playing away from home? Take our simple test and find out!
Your man calls and says he has to stay late at the office to prepare an important presentation. Do you:
a)Tell him he’s working too hard, then whip up his favourite meal and pop it in the oven to keep warm. The poor guy’ll need feeding up when he makes it home.
b)Call a girlfriend and head out for a night on the tiles. It’s a pity he has to work, but it’s certainly not going to affect your social life.
c)Pull on your biggest shades, jump in the car and race round to his office to make sure he’s where he says he is. Excuses about working late could be the first sign of infidelity.
You find a receipt in your man’s pocket for a sexy underwear store. Do you:
a)Go get a bikini wax immediately. He’s obviously going to present the set to you tonight and you want to look your best for him.
b)Presume he’s gone and bought another gift for his ungrateful mother. He’s way too kind to the old bat.
c)Hear alarm bells. The last time he bought you sexy underwear was years ago… when you were actually having sex with each other.
Your man keeps getting mystery texts in the middle of the night. Do you:
a)Suspect he’s organizing a surprise birthday party for you – he’s such a rascal!
b)Wonder if he’s ever going to cut those apron strings, and then roll over and go back to sleep.
c)Try to get your hands on his phone – you have every right to read his messages.
Your man has been losing weight. Do you:
a)Feel proud of him. It hasn’t been easy cutting back – you really admire his discipline.
b)Ask him how he did it. Maybe if you lost a few pounds that hunky waiter in the Italian wine bar would finally sit up and take notice.
c)Suspect he’s up to no good. He never minded being porky before now.
Results
Mostly As: Your man could have a dozen women on the side and you’d still be oblivious. You have to wise up.
Mostly Bs: Your man is probably playing away from home, but it’s unlikely you are bothered. He’s not your type anyway.
Mostly Cs: You’re suspicious and with very good reason. This guy is making a fool of you – dump him now!
Molly
I’m sitting paralysed on the living-room floor, exactly where Tanya and Alastair found me when they arrived. I know I must have called them and asked them to come over, but I can’t remember doing it. Everything is such a blur that I don’t even know what time it is. All I know for sure is that I have already been handed at least four cups of very hot, very sweet tea, which Tanya insists is the only thing to drink in emergencies. That and brandy. But seeing as we don’t have any brandy, hot, sweet tea will have to do.
Al and Tanya are good in emergencies. Correction: Al and Tanya are mostly good in emergencies. Sometimes they can be hopeless, like the time the chip pan caught fire – they were both completely useless then. Al panicked and threw a saucepan of water over the blaze to put it out (a very bad idea), and Tanya grabbed the pan from him and ran through the open door to chuck it into the garden (the worst possible thing to do, as the air just fanned the flames). But they have been great in other life-or-death situations. Like the day a few years ago when I was still with David and the four of us somehow decided that going for a hike would be the perfect way to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon. I was exhausted in less than twenty minutes, so David lugged my backpack all the way up the mountain for me. Then h
e tripped, fell awkwardly and broke his ankle. I’ll never forget how good Al and Tanya were. Tanya morphed into some sort of Super Nurse and insisted that David keep still, while Al whipped a miniature bottle of brandy from his inside pocket and fed David little sips to ease the pain. I was no use to anyone – in fact I was a sobbing mess – but that must have been because of the altitude: we were pretty high up. Whatever it was, by the time the emergency services came I was so hysterical and paranoid that I was convinced they’d have to amputate David’s leg. I didn’t even protest when Al got a bit over-enthusiastic trying to give him mouth to mouth.
A fleeting picture of David floats through my mind and I shake my head – I can’t be thinking about my ex-boyfriend when my husband has just left me.
‘Charlie has obviously gone mad,’ Alastair says matter-offactly, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Stark raving mad.’
He takes a drag of his menthol cigarette and blows the smoke out his nose, then he splutters a bit and tries to cover it up by taking another drag. He’s a hopeless smoker. He looks exactly like a skinny teenage boy trying too hard to be cool at the back of the school bike shed. Except instead of wearing a polyester pullover and too-short trousers he’s wearing a clingy Prada knit and Gucci sunglasses perched on the highlighted hair he gets ‘seen to’ by a top stylist at Toni and Guy every three weeks.
Usually I wouldn’t let Al smoke in here, but I’m too shell-shocked to protest so he’s chain-smoking to his heart’s content – this is his third cigarette in less than twenty minutes. I can’t bring myself to tell him off. I’m finding it hard even to speak – I can’t believe that Charlie has left me after a couple of weeks of marriage. This can’t possibly be for real. There must be some sort of innocent explanation for this mix-up. If only I could think of what it could be.
